Procrastinator
February 10th, 2006, 05:09 PM
Hi!
This is actually the intro to a book I'm working on. It's technically fantasy, but will have a pretty "street-level", sorta "Micky Spillane-ish" vibe.
Let me know what you guys think.
Thanks for looking! :-)
-Joe
Stefano awakened with a start, his mother’s soft hand over his mouth.
There was no candle, only the merest slash of moonlight across her brilliant blue eyes had allowed him to recognize her at all.
“Shhhh…”, she said. You must be quiet, my dearest. I need you to get dressed as quickly and as silently as you can”.
“What’s wrong, Mamma?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, little one”, she replied. “But something is not right. Some men arrived a few moments ago. Your father is outside with them, now.”
Though already eleven years old, almost a man grown, The boy had to struggle with himself to remain calm. He dressed as his mother had asked, his face a false mask of cool composure all the while.
“Some men…” He puzzled. “Are they Rangers? Maybe they have to ride out together in the morning, and they came to rouse him.”
Raquelle hoped that was the truth of it, though she had her doubts. Her best guess put it five hours till sunrise. Had it been his fellow Rangers, she would doubtless have recognized at least a few of them. Further, if they were setting out with the dawn, they would have unwound their bed rolls downstairs, and gotten what precious little sleep that they could before leaving.
She moved slowly to the window, and peered through the small slit in the shutter. From this vantage point, she could see the back of a man on a white mare. There were no marking that she could see on the man’s saddle, nor on the back of his tunic.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that this rider carried no bedroll at all, nor could she see the quiver that should be hanging of the back of a Ranger’s saddle. This man was no Ranger. She doubted that the others were, either. But who were they?
Her son joined her at the window. A bit small for his age, he had to stand up on a stool to see. He had managed, for the most part, to get the better of his anxiety, but were he being honest, he would have to say that having his mother by his side helped immensely. He was further comforted by the delicate scent of Violets, his mother’s favorite perfume.
“That’s a pretty horse, isn’t it?” asked his mother. “Maybe, when you’re grown, you’ll ride one just as fine. A Ranger should have a swift horse, you know.”
He smiled his sideways smile; the one that he always displayed when he knew something that someone else did not.
“Yes, but perhaps a Black or Chestnut”, he said gently. “No Ranger would ever be caught dead on a White one. It’s beautiful, but a blind man could see it a mile off.”
She should have reasoned that straight away, she realized. These were definitely not those that she had been hoping for, and though she could not make out any words that were being said, the tone seemed to be turning toward unfriendly, with the occasional shout rising above the crackle of the log downstairs in the fireplace.
Better to be safe than sorry, she thought.
“Stefano”, she whispered, “I want you to bring me the sheets from your bed.”
“My sheets, Mamma? Are you cold?” He reached instead for his thicker-and warmer- blanket.
“No dearest. The sheets, please.”
Stefano watched as his mother carefully knotted his sheets together. She tested her work, found the knot acceptable, and then affixed one end to the wall sconce mounted next to the window. She opened the latch, then, placing one hand on the shutter while holding the latch with the other, swung it open in complete silence.
Leaning out just a bit, she could see that the man that she had spied earlier had moved, leaving them a clear path to the woods.
Raquelle bent down, and locked eyes with her boy. It always seemed that her own ice-blue eyes stared back at her when she looked at him. He was so much like her, with those blue eyes, and hair of raven-black, though the serious expression that he always wore belonged to his father.
“You and I are climbing down, my darling. We’ll make our way to the woods, and return when we’re sure it’s safe.”
Stefano gave a small start: “What about Papa? We can’t leave him all alone!”
“Shhhhhh!” she placed a single finger over his lips, and smiled. “Your father will be fine I’m sure”, she consoled him, “Is he not the best Ranger in the land, and the Rangers the finest unit in all the Emperor’s forces?”
That seemed to appease him. His father was the best. Everything would be all right, and in the morning he will have forgotten all this, as if it were only a bad dream.
“Wait here”, his mother instructed, “I’ll go and put on more suitable clothes, and then we’ll be away.”
The boy nodded, gravely.
He checked over his mother’s handiwork - Always be double-sure, his father would say- and found it to be secure. He looked about for his cloak -it was cold out at night-, but remembered that it was downstairs, on his peg near the back door. “I’ll just have to tough it out”, he thought.
He also looked for anything that might be usable for a weapon, but again had no luck. This did not overly concern him for a couple of reasons: For one, he knew that this wasn’t something that his mother would likely forget. She, like his father, was very thorough. The second reason was that his father had always taught him that a person’s mind is the greatest weapon of all, far keener than the edge of any mere blade. As long as they were able to keep their wits about them, they would be able to think their way through any obstacles that might arise.
Moving back to the open window, he glanced about for any sign of the late-night visitors, but saw nothing save the faint glow of their torches from the east side of the house. Then, from downstairs, he heard the loud crack of breaking wood- the bar to the door- and the sound of heavy boots stomping across the stone floor of the great room. The slap of leather on the stone was replaced by the hollow thump of wood as they reached the stairs, followed by the quick padding of a smaller set of feet in soft leather shoes flying past his door, and then the sharp ringing of steel. His mother had joined the fray. Whoever these men might be, they would not find her an easy mark. She had learned her way around a rapier years ago, at her father’s insistence, and had forgotten nothing.
Stefano was halfway to his door, when the din abruptly ceased. Instinctively, he froze where he was – not even breathing- and strained his ears to hear what he hoped would be a signal from his mother.
“Take the child as well”, he heard instead, ordered in a deep, sinister bass voice.
“Yes, Sir!” echoed another, followed by more footsteps, then by fierce pounding at his door, as the eerie glow of torch-light seemed to peer from underneath.
“Unbar the door, you little cur”, bellowed the voice. “Whether you open this door, or I kick it down, you’re coming with us. The harder you make it for me, the harder I’ll make it for you”.
Franticly, his eyes checked them room again for something –anything- that he might use for a weapon. In the end, all that he could lay his hand upon was the lamp that his grandmother had gifted him with on his birthday. It was a very poor weapon, but there was nothing else at hand. He hoped that a shard of it might find its way into the intruder’s eyes, though he knew that that would be asking a lot of a fancy crystal lamp.
He flung the thing as the hinges gave way, missing his target. Instead, the fragile glass burst on the top of the doorjamb, raining its volatile contents down upon his pursuer, whose head and shoulders were immediately engulfed in flames. Stefano recoiled in horror, as the man sank to his knees, clawing frantically at his face. The boy stood rooted there until the sounds of more attackers heading in his direction brought him back to the moment. He had to go.
Later, he wouldn’t remember bolting from the window, down the knotted bed sheet, or at what point he reached the safety of the forest. He wouldn’t be able to gauge how long he crouched there shivering in that light dusting of snow, with only his fury for a blanket, as he watched his family’s home reduced to ashes. He would not be able to guess how long he waited there until he was certain that it was safe to go back to see if there was anything to be saved.
He couldn’t say that he had any idea what he would do next, after finding his Father slain in the front yard, his hands tied behind his back, his head missing from his body, and no sign of his Mother, save the deep purple ribbon from her hair.
But, of a certainty, on that day of searing loss, his parents, his sanctuary, and even his innocence -at eleven years and twenty six days old- was the last day that he ever cried.
This is actually the intro to a book I'm working on. It's technically fantasy, but will have a pretty "street-level", sorta "Micky Spillane-ish" vibe.
Let me know what you guys think.
Thanks for looking! :-)
-Joe
Stefano awakened with a start, his mother’s soft hand over his mouth.
There was no candle, only the merest slash of moonlight across her brilliant blue eyes had allowed him to recognize her at all.
“Shhhh…”, she said. You must be quiet, my dearest. I need you to get dressed as quickly and as silently as you can”.
“What’s wrong, Mamma?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, little one”, she replied. “But something is not right. Some men arrived a few moments ago. Your father is outside with them, now.”
Though already eleven years old, almost a man grown, The boy had to struggle with himself to remain calm. He dressed as his mother had asked, his face a false mask of cool composure all the while.
“Some men…” He puzzled. “Are they Rangers? Maybe they have to ride out together in the morning, and they came to rouse him.”
Raquelle hoped that was the truth of it, though she had her doubts. Her best guess put it five hours till sunrise. Had it been his fellow Rangers, she would doubtless have recognized at least a few of them. Further, if they were setting out with the dawn, they would have unwound their bed rolls downstairs, and gotten what precious little sleep that they could before leaving.
She moved slowly to the window, and peered through the small slit in the shutter. From this vantage point, she could see the back of a man on a white mare. There were no marking that she could see on the man’s saddle, nor on the back of his tunic.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that this rider carried no bedroll at all, nor could she see the quiver that should be hanging of the back of a Ranger’s saddle. This man was no Ranger. She doubted that the others were, either. But who were they?
Her son joined her at the window. A bit small for his age, he had to stand up on a stool to see. He had managed, for the most part, to get the better of his anxiety, but were he being honest, he would have to say that having his mother by his side helped immensely. He was further comforted by the delicate scent of Violets, his mother’s favorite perfume.
“That’s a pretty horse, isn’t it?” asked his mother. “Maybe, when you’re grown, you’ll ride one just as fine. A Ranger should have a swift horse, you know.”
He smiled his sideways smile; the one that he always displayed when he knew something that someone else did not.
“Yes, but perhaps a Black or Chestnut”, he said gently. “No Ranger would ever be caught dead on a White one. It’s beautiful, but a blind man could see it a mile off.”
She should have reasoned that straight away, she realized. These were definitely not those that she had been hoping for, and though she could not make out any words that were being said, the tone seemed to be turning toward unfriendly, with the occasional shout rising above the crackle of the log downstairs in the fireplace.
Better to be safe than sorry, she thought.
“Stefano”, she whispered, “I want you to bring me the sheets from your bed.”
“My sheets, Mamma? Are you cold?” He reached instead for his thicker-and warmer- blanket.
“No dearest. The sheets, please.”
Stefano watched as his mother carefully knotted his sheets together. She tested her work, found the knot acceptable, and then affixed one end to the wall sconce mounted next to the window. She opened the latch, then, placing one hand on the shutter while holding the latch with the other, swung it open in complete silence.
Leaning out just a bit, she could see that the man that she had spied earlier had moved, leaving them a clear path to the woods.
Raquelle bent down, and locked eyes with her boy. It always seemed that her own ice-blue eyes stared back at her when she looked at him. He was so much like her, with those blue eyes, and hair of raven-black, though the serious expression that he always wore belonged to his father.
“You and I are climbing down, my darling. We’ll make our way to the woods, and return when we’re sure it’s safe.”
Stefano gave a small start: “What about Papa? We can’t leave him all alone!”
“Shhhhhh!” she placed a single finger over his lips, and smiled. “Your father will be fine I’m sure”, she consoled him, “Is he not the best Ranger in the land, and the Rangers the finest unit in all the Emperor’s forces?”
That seemed to appease him. His father was the best. Everything would be all right, and in the morning he will have forgotten all this, as if it were only a bad dream.
“Wait here”, his mother instructed, “I’ll go and put on more suitable clothes, and then we’ll be away.”
The boy nodded, gravely.
He checked over his mother’s handiwork - Always be double-sure, his father would say- and found it to be secure. He looked about for his cloak -it was cold out at night-, but remembered that it was downstairs, on his peg near the back door. “I’ll just have to tough it out”, he thought.
He also looked for anything that might be usable for a weapon, but again had no luck. This did not overly concern him for a couple of reasons: For one, he knew that this wasn’t something that his mother would likely forget. She, like his father, was very thorough. The second reason was that his father had always taught him that a person’s mind is the greatest weapon of all, far keener than the edge of any mere blade. As long as they were able to keep their wits about them, they would be able to think their way through any obstacles that might arise.
Moving back to the open window, he glanced about for any sign of the late-night visitors, but saw nothing save the faint glow of their torches from the east side of the house. Then, from downstairs, he heard the loud crack of breaking wood- the bar to the door- and the sound of heavy boots stomping across the stone floor of the great room. The slap of leather on the stone was replaced by the hollow thump of wood as they reached the stairs, followed by the quick padding of a smaller set of feet in soft leather shoes flying past his door, and then the sharp ringing of steel. His mother had joined the fray. Whoever these men might be, they would not find her an easy mark. She had learned her way around a rapier years ago, at her father’s insistence, and had forgotten nothing.
Stefano was halfway to his door, when the din abruptly ceased. Instinctively, he froze where he was – not even breathing- and strained his ears to hear what he hoped would be a signal from his mother.
“Take the child as well”, he heard instead, ordered in a deep, sinister bass voice.
“Yes, Sir!” echoed another, followed by more footsteps, then by fierce pounding at his door, as the eerie glow of torch-light seemed to peer from underneath.
“Unbar the door, you little cur”, bellowed the voice. “Whether you open this door, or I kick it down, you’re coming with us. The harder you make it for me, the harder I’ll make it for you”.
Franticly, his eyes checked them room again for something –anything- that he might use for a weapon. In the end, all that he could lay his hand upon was the lamp that his grandmother had gifted him with on his birthday. It was a very poor weapon, but there was nothing else at hand. He hoped that a shard of it might find its way into the intruder’s eyes, though he knew that that would be asking a lot of a fancy crystal lamp.
He flung the thing as the hinges gave way, missing his target. Instead, the fragile glass burst on the top of the doorjamb, raining its volatile contents down upon his pursuer, whose head and shoulders were immediately engulfed in flames. Stefano recoiled in horror, as the man sank to his knees, clawing frantically at his face. The boy stood rooted there until the sounds of more attackers heading in his direction brought him back to the moment. He had to go.
Later, he wouldn’t remember bolting from the window, down the knotted bed sheet, or at what point he reached the safety of the forest. He wouldn’t be able to gauge how long he crouched there shivering in that light dusting of snow, with only his fury for a blanket, as he watched his family’s home reduced to ashes. He would not be able to guess how long he waited there until he was certain that it was safe to go back to see if there was anything to be saved.
He couldn’t say that he had any idea what he would do next, after finding his Father slain in the front yard, his hands tied behind his back, his head missing from his body, and no sign of his Mother, save the deep purple ribbon from her hair.
But, of a certainty, on that day of searing loss, his parents, his sanctuary, and even his innocence -at eleven years and twenty six days old- was the last day that he ever cried.